


Scars

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She needs him to make her his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Just some porn done for the Hump Day prompt at gameofships (and to get me back to writing these two).

Petyr has taken to leaving long scratches against her back, his nails digging into the flesh and marking her in ways that are easy to hide come morning. It always stings a bit, and Sansa always gasps when it starts, but she can manage the pain well enough (she’s suffered far worse) and underneath there is always the shock of pleasure, vibrating to the surface, breaking through that pain to arrive at something that induces shivers all over her body. She doesn’t think of it to often during the act, though in the morning when she feels the press of her silk gowns against his marks, she feels her cheeks burn slightly, shamed at taking pleasure in something that she knows she should not. 

But as time goes on, she must admit that the shame seems more and more an artifact, something that Sansa would have felt in a different life. 

It bothers her less and less than he marks her. There is a desperation in his touch, his hands greedy as if she would pull away from him at any second (not a baseless worry). He’s claiming her, but it’s always on her back because she insists on being on top. On looking down on him, even if it’s not from afar, of controlling his movements, pressing him back against the headboard of her too large bed, gripping his shoulders, returning each cut to her skin. She leaves his body a patchwork of scars, shadows of the one that rests on his chest, neatly cutting him in two—a more than fitting image for him, really. She would float that idea if he didn’t grow cold at any mention of the scar. She doesn’t need him cold. 

She needs him not in control of his passions, his hands grasping for purchase, his enthusiasm that of a boy even though the fluid movement of his hips, the way he grips her hair, suggests a well practiced lover. She needs him to leave hidden traces of his touch, so that she can remind herself in the morning how stained she is, even as he insists her hands are clean. She needs him to try and make her his, again and again, so that she can feel that this is indeed the right place for her.  
But mostly, she needs that look in his eye when she marks him as well, scraping her nails along his scalp, to feel like she’s the one in control.


End file.
